A Father's Hands
by Shikajino
Summary: In which Mister Canada finds out that both of his fathers really do love him. A songficlet for Canada  go figure . No parings, just fatherly love. Fluffy as a bunny.
1. Chapter 1

Kay, so, yeah.  
Ever hear the song _Daddy's Hands_? Yeah. I don't own that. Or Hetalia.

Just pretend the entire first part is 'spoken' in French. You know, 'cause it's between Francis and Matthew. The second part is between Arthur and Matthew, so it's actually supposed to be in English.  
Any French used will be translated at the bottom. Sorry there's a lot of it.  
And yes, I did use an online translator, thank you very much. :D  
Francis is Matt's 'Papa'.  
Arthur is Matt's 'Daddy'.

* * *

You can tell a lot about a person by the way their hands are. Calloused fingers and rough palms are more easily trusted that soft skin without any imperfections upon their surface. But, what do you do about the things you _can't_ see? The feelings that are expressed through those two appendages. How can you tell?

I remember my Papa clearly. So, maybe that's a lie. I mostly remember his hands (even though I see him at meetings and whatnot- he's not my Papa now. It's different). They were always there. To play games with me, to sooth me, to punish me when I was bad. _Always there._ I remember_ them_ clearly.

I remember Papa folding his hands as he kneeled beside my bed at night. "See, _Mon Chaton_. This is how you pray."

"But Papa, to whom do we pray?"

I distinctly remember the pause – his fingers twitched a few times as if he were trying to come up with a response that I would be able to understand. "Well, you see, I'm not quite sure. Many people pray to many different beings. And –"

"Different beings? Like what, Papa?"

"Like God or Allah or Buddha. And –"

"Who are they, Papa?"

"They are beings that people pray to, remember?" I remember nodding and folding my hands in the same way my Papa had done. It was then I realized I had another problem.

"I know that other people pray to those beings, but Papa, whom do _we_ pray to?"

He sighed. "_Mon Chaton._.." he gave me a small smile, letting me know he wasn't mad at me, just tired, "we are going to simply pray. Even unaddressed prayers have a tendency to find where they are supposed to go. It is simply something to believe in." He went quite again, folding his hands against my bedside; his head bowed. I went to copy him but stopped once more.

"Papa?" I felt bad for interrupting his time of peace, but this was an important question. "Papa, what, exactly, are we supposed to pray_ a__…a__bout?_"

He once again smiled at me before letting one of his hands land on my head. The fingers rubbed back and forth gently, fiddling with my soft blonde locks. "Just say what's in your heart, ok? Speak it clearly in your mind, as if writing a letter. Whoever receives it will take it into consideration and if he or she ("_We don't judge, Mathieu._") deem it well intended, it'll be put into action."

I smiled up at him, nodding once before folding my hands. I felt the fingers on my head pull back slowly, the tips lingering at the base of my tiny cowlick curl we could never tame ("_B__on Dieu__, Mon __Chaton!_ Whatever will we do about this?" "_Désolé_ Papa! I…I don't mean to have it do that!" "_Dieu__!_ Do not cry, _Mon petit Érable__, __s'il vous plaît?_" "_Oui,_ Papa."). He tweaked it for a second; I giggled.

He had folded his hands and bowed his head once more. I copied his movements precisely. It took a moment for me to see his eyes were closed and his lips were moving slowly. I took that as my cue and closed my eyes shut.

I remember mouthing the words _'Please allow me to spend as much time with Papa as possible. I love him very much and I'd hate to see anything happen to him. Merci.'_

_

* * *

_

I remember one night I had a nightmare. I had dreamt that my favourite bear, little Kumaterre, decided he hated me.

I was crying as I stumbled down the hallway to Papa's room. But while turning the doorknob, I paused, wondering how the man would react to the sudden intrusion. I would have pulled back and gone to my room to simply wait out my terror, but there was a soft shifting of paper inside before "…_Oui?_ Mathieu? _Est cela vous?_" I paused in the doorway before opening the door more to let myself be seen by the man inside the room.

"_Oui,_ P…Papa," he had a lamp on beside his bed. He was softly holding a novel in his hands (many a time, I had stumbled upon him reading late at night, he'd always tell me 'a little late night reading leads to nice dreams'). I knew he saw the tears because his fingers gripped the book a bit tighter.

"_Cauchemars?_" The man always seemed to know what was bugging me. I nodded quickly, my curl bouncing long after I had stopped moving my head. Papa's lips had curled upward softy before he gently raised the blankets on the opposite side of the bed. I barley had the door closed before I was racing across the wooden floor. I curled under the blankets and into Papa's side.

I remember his arms circling around me and his hands rubbing small patterns on my back. I fell asleep listening to him cooing quietly an odd song which I had never heard before. If only I had known that, later that week, I would be hearing that song more often, maybe I would have listened with more interest.

_"__Combien d'oiseaux chanteurs volent d'avant en arrière__ dans un jardin de pays anglais__? Je vous dirai maintenant de certains que je sais, ceux je m__anque vous pardonnerez sûrement__… "_

* * *

I remember my Papa's hands as they held my Daddy tight. His knuckles white against firm shoulders and his hair shading his face. Confused, I had padded forward with a "Papa? _Qu'est-ce qui est incorrect?_"

"_R…Rien, mon cher_ Matieu. Do…do not worry. It's just…you have to stay with _Angleterre_ for a while. _Oui?_" My little eyes widened to an impossible size. _Angleterre? Angleterre_ was the man Papa hated with a burning passion. I didn't understand it then, but Papa assured me that, once I grew older, I'd be able to know why Papa had to give me to Daddy.

I remember nodding slowly as Papa's hands dropped to my hair. His fingers slid down my face, caressing my cheeks before tweaking my curl. He gave me a weak smile before turning lightly on his heels. "_Bon au revoir, Mon Chaton. Soyez bons pour lui._" I wanted to race after the man. I wanted to scream, to cry out, to thrash at the new hands that were holding me. But, Papa had always told me to listen to what I was told to do. I watched him walk away from me. He never turned back, but his hands were gripping the hem of his jacket with increasing pressure and they were overcome with violent trembling.

* * *

I remember Daddy's hands. They were a lot more like Papa's than I ever cared to admit. The rough flesh and calloused finger tips were a familiar feel that I couldn't get enough of. They _were_ different from Papa's hands though. They had a rough feel to them (I didn't know why then, but now I can guess it had something to do with the man having raised Alfred) but it wasn't a _bad_ feeling. It was simply different.

I remember the first time Daddy hit me. Alfred had been playing with a ball ("A _base ball_, Mattie. Not just a _ball_. Gawsh, get it wight!"), like were told not to do, and accidentally smashed one of Daddy's vases. It had been near me when it connected with the carpet, and a small piece of glass had violently flung itself upon my hand. I hastily curled it into a fist to hide the blood. Alfred had disappeared quickly, leaving me standing beside the pile of broken glass and the incriminating ball. Daddy, beckoned by the sound of shattering porcelain, had been furious with me.

"How many times have I told you not to play ball in the house?"

"_Cela...__ce n'était pas moi_! A-A-Alfred..."

"Don't you even _think _about blaming this on your brother! He's not even in here! And what have I told you about speaking that…that _barbaric_ language, you insolent little —"

"_Désolé! Je suis désolé! Je n'ai pas eu l'intention de le faire! Je... Je suis…._" I had learned by this time that if Daddy thought I did something, even if it had actually been Alfred, it was easier if I owned up to it and took the punishment. The worst Daddy had ever done was send me to my room without dinner and then refused to give me breakfast the next morning. However, once he had realized his mistake in blaming me, I was allowed to pick what we would be having for both lunch and dinner.

I had never expected Daddy's hand to acquaint itself with my face. There was no time to react as his fingers curled around the collar of my shirt and my feet left the ground. He held me at an arm's length and carried me in my room. His hand connected with the other side of my face. When he left the room, he locked the door with a commanding, "When I come back, you better be ready to explain yourself in _English_." All the way down the hall I could hear him mumbling curses and insults directed at my Papa.

It was then I finally let the tears fall. I raised my hands to me cheeks, rubbing the salty fluid away, but smearing my blood on my face in the process. My cut stung, but I didn't complain. I was too shocked at the redness my face had taken on. And not the red of the blood.

Several hours and bloody tissues later (it was well passed dinner and also Alfred and my bedtime), I heard Daddy's feet beating a hasty pattern on the stairs. I had curled myself under the small nightstand in my room, forming as small a ball as I could muster without harming my already damaged hand. The lock clicked and my door was swung open.

"Matthew? Matthew! Oh God, child, where are you? I…I'm so sorry, Matthew. I didn't realize Alfred broke the vase! I'm so sorry. Matthew? Where are you, Lad?" Daddy looked around the room, eyes laying on the many red stained pieces of cloth as he searched for me.

I remember his hands pulling me out from my hiding place. They cradled me softly, the softest I had been held since Papa held me close that night so long ago, and he rocked me back and forth. "I'm so sorry, Matthew. I…I won't let it happen again. Are you OK, Lad?"

"_Oui_…I mean…y…yes, Daddy. I'm f…fine."

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up. Then maybe some dinner and sleep. Does that sound alright to you?"

I nodded weakly at the man. I honestly couldn't care less at that point. I had already resigned myself to the fate of dying beneath the nightstand, so this whole helping me thing was not in my book of things to have done before the day ended (though the sun had set a long time ago).

I remember his hands being gentle as he cleaned my small ones in the washroom. The fingers moved gracefully as he placed the bandage over my wound, keeping the pain away with a small humming. I recognized the tune, but I couldn't quite place it. I shoved it to the back of my mind. The only thing to worry about now was what was going to happen next.

Daddy gave me dinner; ice cream with chocolate sauce and maple syrup. I was pleasantly surprised when the bowl had been placed in front of me, but ate it either way. The last time I had had dessert as dinner had been when I lived with Papa. The man had had a habit of cooking odd things at odd times of the day. While living with Daddy, I was lucky if I managed to get something edible at least once a week, let alone three times a day.

The ice cream wasn't the last of my surprise. Daddy declared it my bed time (a full three hours after the actual time) and lifted me from my chair. I was big enough to walk and keep up with him, but he still carried me. I remember blinking in confusion as we passed right by my bedroom door. We walked silently to his room and over to his large mattress. He laid me down before snuggling under the covers himself. Instinctively, I curled up beside him, my small fingers fisting into his night shirt. I felt the nostalgia sink in as his arms circled my small body and his hands rubbed patterns in to my back.

"I'm so sorry, Love. I didn't mean to accuse you of something you didn't do. Will you ever forgive me?"

"Yes Daddy. I forg…" I yawned, the rest of my sentence drowned out with the powerful intake of breath. Daddy didn't ask any more questions, he simply pulled me closer and sang in a quiet voice. It was then, right before I fell asleep, I remembered the tune he had been humming.

"_Ho__w many songbirds fly to and fro__ in an English country garden? __I'll__ te__ll you now of some that I__ know, t__hose I__ miss you'll surely pardon…"_

I remember dreaming that night about how a Father's hands hold love for his child. No matter what they may be saying with them or how they tell you.

* * *

So..umm…how did England know Alfred broke the vase…? Umm…the kid talks in his sleep?  
And, I also don't own _English Country Garden_….

French – English Translations

_Bon Dieu_ – Good God_  
Mon Chaton_ – My Kitten_  
Désolé_ – Sorry_  
Mon petit Érable_ – My little Maple_  
s'il vous plait_ – Please_  
Oui_ – Yes  
_Merci _– Thank You._  
Est cela vous_ – Is that you_  
Cauchemars_ - Nightmares_  
Qu'est-ce qui est incorrect?_ – What's wrong?_  
Rien, mon cher_ – Nothing, my dear_  
Angleterre _– England_  
Bon au revoir, Mon Chaton. Soyez bons pour lui._ – Good bye, My Kitten. Be good for him._  
Cela ... ce n'était pas moi! Alfred..._ – It…it wasn't me! Alfred…_  
Je suis désolé! Je n'ai pas eu l'intention de le faire_! Je... Je suis - I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it! I...I'm


	2. Bonus?

I remember waking up the next morning warm and comfortable. My eyes snapped open and all I could see was an expanse of lavender. It was Daddy's nightshirt, crinkled and damp from the long night of sleeping with another – albeit small – body next to his side. I breathed deeply, catching his scent; it was musky, but strangely sweet.

I remembered he smelled like the tea he brewed every morning. "Mmm. Lad, you're finally awake?"

I jumped, tearing my eyes from my hands and catching his emerald iris'. I stared. What was I doing here again? I wasn't bothering him was I? I don't remember coming here in the middle of the night, and either way, he normally takes my visiting as a sign that something's wrong with Alfred and leaves me to my own devises.

He must have seen the fear on my face, because his hand deftly threaded through my hair, pulling it lightly before curling in the ends. Silently, he started to braid and unbraid small strands

"I really am sorry, Love. I know what I did was wrong, and I really do hope you forgive me." I blinked, suddenly recalling the past nights events. He sat up, tucking me gently to his chest and pulled my hands from his shirt. He turned the one over and, breathing in quickly, rushed us to the water closet.

I remember the terror in his face as he unwound the bandages, seeing the sickly yellow color that was left on them. The red mixed with it as soon as the pressure was gone and turned the yellow a disgusting shade of orange. He tisked and started to wipe away the discharge with a wet rag before pouring a good amount of peroxide over the wound.

I remember his eyes widening as he saw the pain that swam through mine. He lightly pulled me closer to his chest. I glanced up at his face, it was taunt, stressed. His eyes were closed. I squirmed a bit. He let me go and started re-cleaning my hands, his eyes never leaving the small gash.  
With the bandages in place, he lifted me up and we went down stairs to the kitchen. I remember his eyes flickering around the room, searching for his other charge before he set me gently in a chair and wandered upstairs to bring Alfred down.

I remember the stained look in his eyes as he heaved and struggled to wrestle the (slightly) older blond into clothing. Alfred had, more than once, tried to run around the house in nothing but his undergarments, which, while fine when we were toddlers, was awkward now that we were as old as we were. Five year olds need to show some kind of maturity, you know. We're not all crayons and bubble baths. Most of the time at least.

Breakfast that morning had been (slightly) burnt pancakes. Alfred had added a small amount of syrup to the food. I, however; covered the things with nearly half the bottle before Daddy appeared and took the container with an angry 'You don't need to _drown _them, Lad.'

Actually, I did. Alfred could enjoy this food all he wanted to. I had grown up with Papa. Papa could cook. Daddy, despite how hard he tried, could not. At all.

He screwed up Kraft Dinner.  
I was five._ I_ couldn't even screw up Kraft Dinner.

But, I digress.

I remember Daddy's eyes flickering to me every few seconds as he went about his meal. He watched me struggling with cutting my pancakes (because of my hand) and, for the first time since I had ever lived under his rule, came around the table to cut them into bite-sized pieces for me. "_Merci_, Da- ehh...th...thank you, Daddy?" He smiled down at me, returning my fork to my uninjured hand.

I remember Alfred's face turning red with anger at the attention I was getting. I watched as he purposefully- sorry, _accidentally_- knocked his glass of milk all over himself.

I remember Daddy's eyes flashing me an apology, the first I'd ever gotten from his eyes, before rushing over to stop the mess as Alfred cried. I turned my attention back to my syrup (for there was _way_ too much of the topping to actually call what I was eating for breakfast, pancakes) and started eating again. "No need to cry over spilt milk, Alfred." Daddy mumbled lightly, patting the (slightly) older child on the head. "Why don't you go to the bathroom and clean yourself up a bit? Be a big boy? I'll be in in a moment."

Alfred puffed his chest up, glowering at me out of the corner of his eyes as he stalked towards the bathroom, leaving a dripping trail of milk behind him. However, he didn't realize something I already knew.

When Daddy talked to Alfred, he called him 'Alfred'.

When Daddy talked to me, it was 'Lad' or 'Love' or 'Bird'.

Very rarely did Daddy refer to me by my actual name. Mostly whenever he was angry or not thinking straight. Or incredibly sleepy or, well—okay, so most of the time he called me Matthew or Canada, but at least he never called Alfred 'Lad', 'Love', or 'Bird.' I had it set in my mind that that was how it would always be.

And, I also knew that Alfred was in store for, not only a bath tonight, but one as soon as Daddy finished cleaning the table of the milk. _I_ would only need _one_ bath today.

Hoser.

* * *

I remember the worry that Daddy's eyes held the first time I came home with hockey wounds. I had been playing rough, but had given away double the body checks that had been dealt to me. I was (physically) around thirteenish at the time, and even though I'd been playing hockey for centuries, this was the first time I had ever came home with blood on my body.

Daddy freaked.

His eyes had widened to an impossible size; small green fields becoming large forests expanding over the hills of his lands. He was scared. For what, I've never been quite sure. It could have been one of a plethora of things. My injuries. The blood. The blood that may or may not have found itself to everything I'd touched on my journey from the front door to the kitchen. The limp I had acquired. The fire that was burning on the stove.  
I rushed to put the last one out, knowing I'd saved the kitchen once again. (The last time, the room hadn't been so lucky. The walls had needed repainting and most of the items and appliances ended up getting replaced. The fire department was really mad. Understandably, of course.)

"Bird? Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. I just finished up a hockey match. Nothing too serious to worry abo…" The front door slammed angrily, calling Daddy's attention away from me.

"Al? Alfred? Do not slam my doors please."

"You can't tell me what to do, Old Man." More door slamming.

I remember Daddy's eyes narrowing, becoming little more than a sliver of emerald surround by a slowly reddening sea of flesh.

I remember knowing that I'd lost him.

* * *

I remember seeing Papa's eyes for the first time in centuries. The blue was even more crystalline than they had been back then. I didn't realize it was because I was crying.

I remember not knowing what he was doing; sneaking around behind England's house in the dead of night. I remember how I felt seeing him meet Alfred at the bottom of my brother's balcony as opposed to trying to visit me. I remember the anger, the jealousy, the hurt, the pain, the betrayal. Why, after all these years, did he go to Alfred? Why hadn't he come back for me? Did he not care for me as he used to? Did he not remember the days we spent, playing and learning, or the nights we spent huddled up on the couch with him protecting me from the storms?

Did I not matter anymore?

* * *

I remember the day Alfred left. It was rainy and not particularly warm (just...not cold, per say), like always in London, when England showed up. He was soaked and bloody; whether it was his or not, I didn't know (or want to know). Either way, it would have been bad.

I remember the dead look in his eyes as I undressed him and washed his body for him in the tub before gently dressing his wounds as he did mine when I was young. I held him close to my chest and ran my fingers through his wet hair, burying his face into my neck.

I remember the cloudy colour that seemed to leave his eyes as he pulled back and looked at me for the first time in hours, voicing the one thing I'd come to terms with long before he'd left for my brothers lands. "He's gone, Lad."

"Daddy; he's been gone for years." I'm not sure if he understood what I meant by that.

* * *

I remember how wide Daddy's eyes became the first day I was late coming home. It had been fifty-three years since America had left and I was an hour late getting home from the hockey game I had been playing. The game had run long and, by the time I'd stumbled in the door sore and bruised (in the _best_ way possible), Daddy was already four bottles into his avid depression.

"Daddy? Daddy, don't cry. I'm home, Daddy. I'm here."

I remember the feeling I got when Daddy looked at me. His eyes, which had started as half-lidded slivers of green, widened to giant emeralds, sparkling in the firelight. I remember the look of surprise he wore as he took my appearance in and finally, after what seemed like decades of time, he opened his mouth with "...America? Is that you? Why have you come back! I hate you. _I hate you_. I HATE YOU! _GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU BLOODY TOSSER!_"

I backed away. Daddy had never been this angry. _Ever_. He may hate America, but so far, he'd yet to confuse me for him. Well, until now that is.  
I remember watching him stand up as though on the battlefield; looking around warily, eyes darting here and there trying to find more enemies. "Daddy. Daddy, it's me, Matthew. Canada. America's not _here_."

"Don't try to trick me, boy. I know a traitor when I see one. And I believe I'm staring right at one." He advanced towards me, swaying back and forth; whether from the alcohol or in a tactical way to keep me guessing, I'll never know. Anyway, he blocked me against a wall, eyes narrowed deadly small and, before I realized what he was doing, I was on the ground gasping for breath with blood and heat forming on my face from where his fist had landed blow after blow.

* * *

I remember the apologetic look on his face the next morning when I woke up and went to the kitchen to find him plating breakfast. It looked and tasted terrible, but I ate it anyway (after drowning it with syrup) to let him know I didn't blame him for what happened.

It took eighty-seven more misshapes before I started blaming him instead of the alcohol and his 'illness'. I mean, I'm very peaceful, but there's only so much I can take and eighty-eight cases of mistaken identity that lead to bruised checks, broken bones, and bloody lips is pretty much it.  
I remember looking at violet eyes that stared back from the mirror on the morning I decided to do it. I remember feeling all the courage that I needed well up in my chest as I walked towards the man I needed to see.

"Arthur. Sit down and listen to what I have to say." The man blinked slowly, his eyes clouded with sleep and drunkenness, before he slumped down onto the chesterfield. "I want, no, I _need_ independence, but I will not fight for it. I_ refuse _to hurt you as Alfred did. I am, and don't deny it, a very selfish person. It may not seem like it, but I can't have you hate me. I need your acceptance—I crave it—which is why I'm asking for your blessing on becoming independent. Please, if you do anything for me, do this. But, I don't want it now. You're drunk. I won't accept your answer now. You can tell me later." With that, I heaved Arthur to his feet and went through the motions of putting the man to bed.

I remember seeing his eyes clear for a moment and his hands reach up to grab my shoulders. "When did you grow up, Lad?" His hands dropped and he fell asleep.

* * *

Seven months later Arthur got sober and the Dominion of Canada came to be.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. If I did, it would delve more into the histories of countries and not on random moments in time. Not that that's not cool, but still. I'd delve more into countries origins n'stuff.

Yeah. So, as far as this is concerned…I think it's fairly OK, even though it wasn't supposed to exist, so…ehh…

This is just an extra, it can't stand alone, but the first chapter can. This is as far as the story goes though. Sorry the ending sucks. But, then again, it wasn't going to actually be written in the first place, so…

Hope you enjoyed it though. Review? Honestly, I live off of them, and I replay back to all of them! :D


End file.
